Columns

Photo Credit: Ryan Lane

By Ezra Dyer

I’ve got a friend named Brian who lives in L.A. The last time I visited, we rode fixed-gear bikes to his favorite bar, which has a sound system made from wired-together ’80s boom boxes. There, we considered ordering the house pear-infused artisanal bourbon but instead drank Chimays. The bartender sported a neck tattoo and looked like she’d be equally at home working at American Apparel, which was right across the street. Brian has a horseshoe mustache, is fond of the adjective “rad” and insists that he’s not a hipster.

The question of his hipster-dom, or lack thereof, arose after he made a trip to Boston and I took him out for a pub-centric tour of Beacon Hill. Given the sensibilities described above, I should’ve brought him to the South End for a Delux-Beehive evening. Instead, I dragged him to my favorite townie meathead establishments, places where Michelob is considered a microbrew and the bar games involve sharp metal objects—and not, say, Pong on a vintage console TV.

After he left, it occurred to me that I’d done him a disservice. “Sorry, man,” I said. “I should’ve taken you to the hipster places.” But Brian’s response surprised me. “That’s OK,” he replied. “I’m not a hipster.”

This sounded like denial, so I reminded him of the fixed-gear bikes, the boom boxes, the American Apparel strategically located in a scruffy yet appealing, up-and-coming neighborhood. “Fixed-gear bikes give you a good leg workout, and they’re easy to maintain,” he said. “And that American Apparel closed. Nobody around here can afford that stuff.” Brian’s essential argument is that an average L.A. resident is perceived as a raging hipster only in the context of Boston. He may have a point. To me, everyone in L.A. looks like a bike messenger.

I’m not trying to make fun of hipsterism, because it’s pointless to mock a movement that’s defined by ironical self-awareness. For instance, on an episode of the IFC show Portlandia, guests checking into a hipster hotel were handed a complimentary typewriter. This was supposed to be a joke, but I guarantee that Portland’s hotel-management audience thought, “Hey, what a great idea! That would give me something to do with all my typewriters.” When I stayed in Portland, my hotel had a holy book menu—as if you’re going to call room service and say, “Could you send up a cheeseburger, a Diet Coke and, let’s see… I guess I’ll have a Koran.” For a hipster, the ideal hotel is a condemned sanatorium furnished with found items and staffed by people dressed for Chester Arthur’s inaugural ball.

I consider myself hipster-friendly, and I’m game for occasionally dipping a toe in those cultural waters. For instance, I recently rode my bike to a small beer store and filled up a growler with a microbrew on tap. This might be the most hipster-esque thing I’ve ever done, and it didn’t work out too well. When I got home the beer was flat and tasted like Hulk Hogan’s armpit, which is the default aroma of any oft-used growler jug. I’m sorry, hipsters, but draft beer just isn’t portable. A freshly poured beer is like a rainbow or Tom Brady’s smile, beautiful yet ephemeral. We’re going to have to accept that and really work on perfecting our homebrews. Also, my bike is an 18-speed Specialized and doesn’t look like something imagined by Jules Verne during a fever delirium.

I have Hipstamatic on my phone, but I prefer the normal non-vintage photos. Last year, I accidentally bought a pair of skinny jeans, and when I got home and tried them on I looked like an ugly girl in jeggings. I’ve tried to grow a mustache but quit after three weeks, when the pathetic reddish fuzz above my lip still hadn’t prompted a single person to say, “Hey, are you growing a mustache?”

I suppose I have to accept the fact that I’m a meathead. I enjoy beer games that involve yelling and swinging hammers. I have no facial hair, nor do I play the banjo. Generally, I regard hats as pragmatic and weather-dependent. I could probably see myself participating in a feel-good riot, but not an angry one. I was once at a party where the neighbors called the cops and reported that we were banging on pots and pans, when actually we were playing real-life Donkey Kong with an empty keg. In high school, I test-drove a Monte Carlo SS but couldn’t afford it. Hey, want to hear about an obscure new underground band that I’m into? Foster the People. They’re rad.